Iron Men, Crosby Beach

Men, scattered, standing on the forlorn shore, looking out, solitary, seaward, never speaking, never moving.

Some completely submersed at high tide, others knee deep in the shifting turbulent sands; all glimpsing, longing for, the occasional ship that passes them by.

Each facing away from the fading town; a wannabe tourist destination that never was; these men the last gloomy attraction.

Men that have never lived, never loved, never worked, never screamed, never grown up.

But like all, decaying; and eventually, when we've all perished, washed away on those turbulent sands.